


run away like mercury

by ephemeralsky



Series: maybe i'm defective, maybe i'm dumb [2]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Night Clubs, M/M, feat. a pair of killer stilettos, warnings are listed in the beginning of the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 02:44:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15403218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralsky/pseuds/ephemeralsky
Summary: It’s a game, Neil reminds himself, and in a game, there is a winner and a loser. Neil has never been either of these things, because he is neutral; a non-playable character.He isn’t going to let a cop change that.(or: Neil is a show boy who knows Too Many things and Andrew is a detective who knows just enough)





	run away like mercury

**Author's Note:**

> Big shoutout to [ requiemofkings ](http://requiemofkings.tumblr.com/) for letting me run with their AU. The  first part  of this series ("wind me tighter than a wire") is based on [ this ](http://requiemofkings.tumblr.com/post/171514561740/au-where-kevin-and-andrew-are-detective-buddies) wonderful fanart of theirs.
> 
> TWs: Violence, implied/referenced past sexual abuse, use of knives, implied/referenced alcoholism, character injury, descriptions of scars. Please let me know if you need me to add anything else. 
> 
> Title of fic is from Nothing but Thieves’ “Sorry”

It’s a game.

He knows this, and they know it too. He’s read something about this once, something about emotional labor, about selling something that you wouldn’t think money could buy. He’s seen documentaries about it too, about cabaret girls and host clubs and performances that begin when you step inside and end only when you leave.

What he does is different, but it is also the same. His role is easy: be sweet, attentive, docile, but never submit. Spin beautiful lies for them, make them feel good about themselves, and let them think that they have the upper-hand. He would cross one smooth leg over the other, flutter his eyelashes, and pull his lips into a jejune pout or a coquettish smile. They all like it when he plays hard-to-get too, pushing and pulling just enough to ensnare them in the game for however long he needs them to.

People always want what they can’t have.

And Neil is - well, he isn’t something that’s attainable. He’s fought his whole life to make sure that he doesn’t belong to anybody, shackled and tied down. Besides, there’s nothing worth attaining about him in the first place.

There are a few ground rules to this game, of course.

Nobody can touch him unless he allows it. The last person to touch him without his consent left the club with a broken wrist. It leaves the message unequivocally clear.

They can’t ask him personal questions. Things like his favorite food or favorite color can be made up on the spot, so this type of enquiries is fine. Things like his phone number or the stories behind his scars are shot down before they get a chance to form shapes and meaning in the air.

One of the most important rules is that those who come here for the entertainment should come here for the entertainment, and those who come here for business should come here for business. If they want both, then they have to come on different nights. This type is rare, though; a frosty information broker with a notorious past apparently leaves a longer impression than a kitschy show boy with fascinating scars and shapely legs.

This rule keeps everything in order, keeps things separate and easy to understand, the key ring that holds together different keys to different locks. This is important, because the rules for the other game are different.

In the second type of game, his role is much easier: be detached, professional, but never appear as a threat. Some easy rules apply to the customer: no weapons are allowed, and only a certain amount of time is allotted for each transaction, with only a certain number of people allowed to meet him face to face. He sells them whatever information they come to buy and they pay him whatever price he puts up, and both parties walk out the door satisfied. They don’t speak about anything business-related if they ever meet outside of business hours.

The rules that apply to both games are as such: never compromise, never play favorites, always be a neutral force.

He never bends these rules, until he does.

The door snicking open jolts him awake, and he barely keeps himself from falling off the couch. Jean leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest.

“Slept well?”

Groaning, Neil scrubs a hand down his face.

“What is the point of having a penthouse if you’re going to spend your nights sleeping on a second-hand couch?”

Neil checks the time on his phone as he gets to his feet. After stretching out his arms and rolling his neck, he finally addresses Jean.

“Good morning to you too, _mon coeur_.”

Jean’s lips flattens. “You really shouldn’t be sleeping here -”

“I’ve only done it a couple of times -”

“- and you are overworking yourself -”

“- and I’m really not doing that much -”

“- so it is crucial that you get enough rest.”

“- so I don’t see what the problem is.”

Jean sighs at the same time Neil rolls his eyes.

“This has been a nice chat,” Neil says, pocketing his keys and shoving his feet into his battered combat boots, “but I need to go back to my _penthouse_ and take a shower.”

“ _Now_ he wants to go home,” Jean mutters.

When Neil is at the door, Jean holds a hand out to stop him.

“ _Mon chaton_ ,” he starts, then reconsiders.

“Neil,” he tries again, dropping his hand and all pretense of exasperation. “Just - be careful.”

Neil feels a crease forming between his brows. “You know I always am. I would never do anything that would put any of you in danger.”

“That’s not what I was referring to,” Jean says, with his knowing grey eyes and perpetual frown lines.

Neil doesn’t quite understand what he was referring to, but he knows that Jean is always looking out for him, so he nods anyway.

“I’ll see you tonight, Jean.”

The weather is cool as it wanes towards late autumn, and it is a refreshing change from being cooped up inside the club all night. Neil enjoys it for a moment before he descends the stairs into a subway station, engulfed in artificial lights and brick walls once again.

The apartment is silent when he returns - not that he expects otherwise. He brushes his teeth, takes a shower, changes into a cashmere sweater and skinny jeans, rubs strawberry lotion into his hands. Donning a light coat and a pair of his nicer boots, Neil heads back out.

With some extra time on his hands, he decides to walk instead of taking the train. At the intersection that’s right across his favorite cafe, he sees him.

Andrew’s expression remains impassive when Neil’s eyes meet his. The pedestrian signal turns from red to green, and Neil crosses the road unhurriedly, hands in the pockets of his coat. Andrew tosses the butt of his cigarette into the gutter and follows Neil into the shop, the bell tinkling above the door.

The barista greets Neil with a chipper, “Hey, there! The usual?” and gets to work after Neil’s affirmative nod.

With his card already out, he steps in front of Andrew at the register and says, “It’s my turn today.”

They grab their drinks - a black coffee for Neil and some complicated mocha for Andrew - and leave the shop, strolling down the street next to each other. The click of their heels against the cobbled pavement has a nice rhythm to it - it might be because Andrew’s steps are always in sync with his.

When they steer down one of the shopping avenues, Neil takes the opportunity to skim his eyes over the window displays, mannequins with fur coats and satin dresses, daises with leather purses and glittering necklaces. It’s the kind of worldly materials that some of his admirers have pushed onto him, to vie for his affection, to coax and pin down his attention, as if he is something that can be bought.

He might have a more refined fashion sense at twenty-six than he did at sixteen, but seeing these exorbitantly-priced things always makes him want to scrunch his nose up.

A pair of fuchsia stilettos has him slowing down until he’s standing right in front of the display window to a Jimmy Choo store.

The color would go well with the costume he is expected to wear for his next set, he thinks absently.

The ghost of Andrew’s reflection takes shape next to his on the glass window, and Neil shakes his head to dispel any notions about purchasing the shoes. It’s not that he can’t afford them, but the shoes just aren’t worth the money. His opinion on designer brands is this: it’s less about the item and more about the brand itself. You want it because it is a badge of wealth, a symbol of status; it is proof that you are as valuable as these items of luxury.

Neil cannot be bought, but it’s not like he’s worth that much money in the first place. After all, why would anyone bid any value on damaged goods?

He averts his gaze and starts walking again.  

Taking a sip of his coffee, he tips his head back, gazing up at the silver sky with a hand shielded over his eyes. It looks clear and deceptively smooth, like marble tiles that could crack and fall and smash you over the head.

“Watch where you’re going,” Andrew says mildly, just in time for Neil to sidestep a baby stroller.

Neil darts his eyes down to the sturdy fingers twisted around the sleeve of his coat, then up to Andrew’s indifferent face.    

“Thanks,” Neil says quietly, and Andrew lets go of him.

This is a game too.

But the rules to this game are hazy, fluctuating, because this _thing_ between them is constantly changing, evolving with each night that Andrew comes to the club to see him perform, with each day Neil meets up with him on his coffee run, with each removed boundary and diminishing distance.

He’s known since the beginning, all those months ago, that Andrew didn’t seek him out again to gather information about a case. He had allowed it, because he was interested in seeing how it would play out.

It’s a complicated game with simple rules.

At the hot dog stand a few blocks away from the thirteenth precinct’s police station, Andrew buys a large soft pretzel that he splits with Neil. They eat it on a bench that faces a deli, their silhouettes reflected on the display windows.

He looks small, next to Andrew’s broad shoulders.  

Chewing on the last bite of his pretzel, he turns to look at Andrew, feeling a smidge of baseless irritation gnaw at his chest. Andrew, already finished with his mocha and pretzel, turns to stare back, and the feeling dissipates.

Andrew raises a hand towards Neil’s face, waiting for his nod before brushing a thumb over the corner of his mouth. It comes away with a piece of coarse salt stuck to the center, and Andrew licks it off with an unceremonious swipe of his tongue. Neil rips his gaze away.

It’s a game, he reminds himself, and in a game, there is a winner and a loser. Neil has never been either of these things, because he is neutral; a non-playable character.

He isn’t going to let a cop change that.

*

“How did the middle part go again?” Val looks down at her feet as she moves them in time with her counting. “One, two, slide… and then what?”

“I think it’s one, two, slide, one, two, twirl,” Tina says, demonstrating.

“No, no,” Marissa chimes in. “It’s supposed to be one, two, twirl, one, two, slide.”

“Neil,” Angie drawls, “can you sort this out before we confuse ourselves even further?”

Neil sighs, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

“Just one more time?” Val pleads.

“Fine,” Neil relents. “It’s one, two, slide -” he pauses, emphasizing the slide of his left foot backwards “- then one, two, twirl.”

“Ha!” Tina exclaims. “Told you bitches.”

Marissa rolls her eyes so hard that Neil thought they would pop out of their sockets.

“Yeah, well, just don’t forget the lyrics this time,” Angie says.

They call it quits for the day, congregating to the side of the stage as they drink from their water bottles and exchange updates on their lives. Val is taking an extra online class this semester, Tina suspects that her boyfriend is concocting an elaborate proposal, Marissa’s new retail job is driving her up the wall, and Angie’s daughter can now use the toilet on her own.

Neil adjusts his shorts, the loose waistband making them slide over his hipbones each time he so much as takes a step. Not the most practical thing to wear to a dance rehearsal, but they’re comfy, and Neil has always had trouble throwing out any of his belongings. Jean likes to say that it’s the only part of him that’s still soft and pure, this sentimentality towards the things he calls his.

Angie is on the floor, removing her three-inch heels and rotating her ankles. “Why do we do this to ourselves?” she says with a sigh.

Bending forward, Neil reaches down to unstrap his flamingo-pink stilettos, his third and fourth toes taped. “Because we would do anything to make ourselves look good?”

“You’re so vain, Neil,” she jokes flatly, because they know that he is the least vain person in the country when it comes to his appearance.

“At least we can just about do anything in these,” Tina says, hopping rapidly from one foot to the other to make her point.

Janie comes up to them, folding her arms at the edge of the stage and resting her chin on top. “Anybody need any extra padding in their shoes? Any stitching to their skirts? I have some free time right now if you need me to fix them.”

The girls answer in a chorus of “Nah, I’m good.”

Janie blows out a bubblegum and lets it pop over her lips. “Neil?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

Janie had been studying fashion design, back when she was first hospitalized. Bartending is just another skill she picked up when Neil offered her the job after she recovered and decided not to go back to school.

“Okay, then.” She gives them a lazy wave as she heads to the kitchen, and Jean takes her place seconds later.

“All ready for next week?”

“Unless Val forgets her steps again, we should be fine,” Marissa says. Val jabs her side with a finger, and she squeaks, swatting her hand away.

Jean accepts this with a solemn nod, ever serious.

“Angela,” he says, “a package came for you. Robert opened it for standard inspection and didn’t find anything suspicious.”

“Ooh, is it a gift?” Tina asks, twiddling her fingers in excitement.

“I believe so.”

“Looks like Neil isn’t the only one with dedicated fans,” Val remarks with a playful nudge to Angie’s ribs.

Angie scoffs, getting to her feet. “Well, I’m sure their fantasies will be shattered when they find out I’m a single mom.”

The girls retreat to the ‘Employees Only’ section of the club, Tina’s voice rising above the others’ as she says, “They’ll be focused on the fact that you’re single, darling.”

Barefoot on the stage, Neil does some stretches, stooping forward against the floor with his legs parted wide.

“Feeling sore?” Jean asks in French.

“Not really,” Neil replies in the same language, straightening up and rearranging his legs in front of him before bending his knees so that the soles of his feet meet. He remains in this position as he mindlessly rubs the blisters on his heels and scrolls through his phone, looking through the dossier that he will sell during his next appointment.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you are, though,” Jean says, leaning against the side of the stage. “You don’t perform as much as you used to.”

He doesn’t, not since Izzy made him co-owner of the place a year ago. Before then, he was just a showboy and a waiter, putting on shows a few times per week and working the floor every night. When he wasn’t flaunting his body and voice on stage and chatting up the customers with a cloying smile on his lips, he was in the office, supplying information in exchange for money. When he wasn’t doing any of these things, he’s helping Izzy bring in broken strays and clumsily trying to mend their pieces back together, just as she did with him.

Ever since the promotion, he’s been performing less and less to set aside more time and energy on managing the club, other singers and dancers called in to fill his slots. The other job has remained unchanged.  

Most of the time, he feels that the promotion is undeserved. But sometimes, in quiet moments when he is by himself - sitting by the window in his apartment with a cigarette cupped between his hands, listening to a song on repeat with his legs dangling over the edge of the club’s roof - he feels grateful and assured. He’s made a place for himself here, with these people, and he will have a future here, maintaining it as neutral grounds and a safe haven for the people who need one.

“Didn’t Janie say something about it though?” Neil says, putting away his phone. “Something along the lines of how it’s a good marketing strategy?”

A half-smirk graces Jean’s face as he recalls, “‘It’s like when you sell limited edition shoes and people flood in to buy them because of how rare they are’. I think that’s what she said.”

“Wise words,” Neil says with a sage nod, dusting off the back of his shorts as he stands. “Trust fall!” he declares out of the blue, and he hears Jean scrambling to catch him when he turns around, closes his eyes, and falls backward off the stage.

He doesn’t open his eyes until he feels Jean’s arms on his back and under his knees.

“Neil,” Jean reprimands, slightly out of breath as he sets Neil on the ground, “you can’t keep doing that without warning.”

“Then how will I know if you’d catch me?” Neil says with wide eyes, his go-to callow response whenever Jean says this.

Jean’s frown cuts deeper than normal. “You don’t have to keep testing people like this. I understand it if you don’t trust us, but you are wrong if you think that we don’t have your back.”

The accusation stings like a cut in dry air. Neil opens his mouth to argue, but Jean is already looking away.

“Don’t forget to apply some ointment for your feet,” is all he says before he leaves.

*

One of the bartenders who works at the pub that Andrew’s squad frequents informed him that nowadays, Andrew stops Kevin at two shots instead of two bottles, hauling him away from the bar regardless of his protests.

It was the fee that Neil put up in exchange for some weighty information, a throwaway comment more so than it was a real price tag, but Andrew is actually paying it.

Neil hadn’t expected him to.    

In the end, he supposes he’s grateful - a part of him still cares deeply about Kevin, after all.

Andrew had once told him that he always keeps his promises. Neil is starting to believe him. Maybe he’s started to believe him for a while now.

His mind regurgitates this over and over again, a scene rewound and replayed too many times ever since his argument with Jean, for one reason or another.

So he has trust issues - what else is new? But he has always thought that he trusted his family at La Taniere, especially Jean, after all that they’ve been through. The fact that Jean doesn’t seem to think so is a bit baffling, even a little wounding.

He just finds it difficult to understand how his brain has concluded that this personality defect of his is somehow related to Andrew.

He knows all about Andrew Joseph Minyard, even before he met him. Kevin’s little guard dog, standing at a whopping five-foot height, and one of the best detectives in the one-three due to his sharp perception and eidetic memory. Also one of their most volatile detectives due to his violent outbursts, disrespect for superiors, and all-around unpredictable nature.   

The records show a turbulent history in the foster care system and the existence of a long-lost-now-found twin. After beating up four men outside of the club where he and his cousin worked, he avoided a long-acting antipsychotic medication mandate when his lawyer, Abigail Winfield, proposed his enrollment in the police academy in addition to receiving weekly therapy. The records also show sexual abuse allegations made anonymously against one of his former foster brothers.

It took Neil less than an hour to dig up all this information and some more.

He’s sure that Andrew knows all there is to know about him too, that night after they first met. If not through Kevin’s disclosure, then through the grapevines. All public records concerning a Nathaniel Wesninski have been wiped out of existence, after all, and those that concern a Neil Josten are few and far between. The few well-known tidbits that have managed to circulate are all people need to know about him anyway - the son of a dead gangster, a former Moriyama asset, the nephew of a British crime lord, and the man who always has his ears to the ground.

One would think that these are all the facts they need to know about each other.

The game that he and Andrew are entangled in involves a lot of questions and answers and biting one-liners, all delivered relentlessly with surgical precision. It also involves a lot of fleeting touches and probing gazes, of pressing for the sutures of each other’s masks and taking a glimpse into what lies underneath.

Neil is mostly surprised that neither of them have put a stop to this yet, wonders why that is so.

He picks and prods at these thoughts like a curious child with a stick, one hand working some cream onto his feet like Jean told him to do a few days ago. They had another rehearsal earlier today and his feet aren’t aching, but he knows how important it is to keep his feet comfortable and in good shape when he’s dancing around in pointy heels.

He is also aware that his legs are one of his best features; where the rest of his body are littered with scars, his legs are mostly unmarred. It would serve him good to keep them in pristine condition. His other hand lays motionless on the touchpad of his laptop, the financial report on the screen long forgotten.

The club is already closed for the night and all the other staff have left, which means that the creak of the dressing room door opening has him flinching hard, jarred out of his thoughts, his fingers reaching for his switchblade.  

Andrew stills by the door, and he doesn’t move until all the tension leaks out of Neil’s body, the switchblade tucked back into the pocket of his sweater. His laptop remains perched on the armrest of the couch, thankfully. He flips it close and sets it aside to avoid tempting fate.

Neil exhales slowly through his mouth. He feels slightly annoyed now that the apprehension is drained from his system, but it’s less towards Andrew and more towards himself.

He’s in a hoodie and a pair of briefs, but he’s exposed more skin in front of a larger audience before - he doesn’t care to cover his bare legs as Andrew enters the room.

Andrew’s eyes run over the length of his legs before being dragged back up to his face. His expression never betrays anything, but his eyes do, sometimes, like they did just now. They’re a hazel color, flecks of green shimmering around the edges when the sun hits them at a certain angle.

“What are you doing here?”

“You never told me where you live,” Andrew says plainly, a box tucked under an arm.  

“And I never will. How did you get in?”

“Your bodyguards.”

Robert and the others must have just been leaving when Andrew arrived. Neil checks his phone; they alerted him of Andrew’s visit a couple of minutes ago. With how regularly Andrew comes to the club, he supposes that it shouldn’t be surprising that they have grown accustomed to him, their hackles no longer raised at the mere sight of a pig.

“They’re not my bodyguards,” Neil says, even though he knows Andrew is aware of that.

“No earpieces to alert you this time?” Andrew mocks dully.

Neil rolls his eyes. “You got lucky.”

“You are working late,” Andrew states as he approaches the couch, watching Neil watch him.

“You could say I’m working early,” Neil quips, “since it’s already four in the morning.”

Andrew levels him an unimpressed look. “I wasn’t aware that you were a morning person.”

“I’m not much of a person, to be honest.”

“You are not much of anything, to be honest.”

“Gotta admit that I’m a pretty good singer, though.”

Andrew doesn’t say anything in response, stopping directly in front of Neil.

“Why are you here?” Neil asks, genuinely curious.  

Instead of answering, Andrew sinks down on one knee, placing the box on the floor next to Neil’s feet. He removes the lid, unfolds the paper wrapper, and takes out a pair of fuschia stilettos.

“Those are -” The ones he saw the other day, during their walk.

A gnarl of contrasting feelings wells up in his chest; confusion, surprise, elation, anger. He focuses on that last emotion, snatches it and loads it into a gun to use as ammunition, because it’s always easier to be angry than it is to be anything else.

“Why are you giving me these?”

“Because I want to.”

“Because you want to,” Neil echoes, incredulous. “You don’t want anything. Isn’t that what you’re always saying?”

“It is,” Andrew affirms, infuriatingly bland and unmoved.

Confusion threatens to take over, but Neil tramples forward with the same ammo. He feels the fury licking up the inside of his throat like a torched building, feels it twisting his lips into something ugly.

“Do you think that I can be won over with these?” he demands, furious. “That I can be _bought_?”

“They are a gift. It is up to you to accept them or not.”

“I don’t -” Neil clenches his jaw, the rest of the words locked behind gritted teeth.

His anger gradually seeps out of him; Andrew’s unwavering gaze and apathy have the tendency to do that to him.

“I don’t have anything to give you in return,” he finishes, his voice much more subdued.

“It is not like I expected you to have prepared me something.”

“These are really expensive.”

“I chose the installment payment plan.”

“Do you even know my shoe size?”

“It seems that you would have to try them on and find out.”

Neil huffs, a little chagrined, but mostly resigned. He bites his lower lip and casts his gaze downwards to his lap, tearing it away from Andrew with great effort.  

“I’m not your answer,” he says, sounding resolute even with his heart trembling like a broken bird in his ribcage, “and you’re not mine.”

“I never said that I was,” Andrew replies, “or that you were mine.”

“Good.” Neil swallows, bobbing his head in a nod. “Glad we’ve made that clear.”

His fingers fidget with the hem of his hoodie, the fabric bunched and unbunched repeatedly. His gaze flickers back to Andrew, whose eyes have never left Neil ever since he entered the room. They rarely do, Neil realizes, when they’re in each other’s company.

A strange sense of calmness rinses away all the other conflicting emotions like a street washed clean after a downpour.

And then it dawns on to him:

This isn’t a game, not to Andrew.

The realization glows like a jar of firefly in his chest, which isn’t exactly how he would have expected it to feel. But it’s...a nice feeling.

Andrew lifts a pale eyebrow. “Well?”

“Well,” Neil answers, curling his toes against the floor, “put them on, then.”

A glint of _something_ flashes through Andrew’s eyes, lighting them up for a brief moment. It relays so much more information than his unflappable facade does.

Andrew’s hands are firm and surprisingly - _unbearably_ \- gentle as they slip Neil’s foot through the intricate straps. Warmth blossoms from where his palm trails over the mound of Neil’s toes and the jut of his ankle, dipping just under his calf.

When he’s done fastening the shoe on Neil’s other foot, he lets his calloused fingers linger.

There is a tiny quake in his feather-light touch - another traitorous reaction that gives him away. It tells Neil that Andrew is afraid, and that he might be too.

He gazes down at the green-blue web of his veins on his arched feet, almost invisible among the brightly colored stiletto straps.

The shoes fit perfectly.

*

The crowd is still roaring when _there’s trouble at the atrium_ crackles into his earpiece.

A radiant smile still plastered to his face, Neil begins his exit from the stage, blowing a kiss in the audience’s direction. Somebody removes his microphone for him, and the girls glance at him worriedly as he reminds them to stick together and stay safe.

The voile skirt at the back of his pink halter-neck leotard brushes against his thighs with every quickening stride he takes towards the atrium, his elbow-length silk gloves and ornate headband with pearl accents discarded along the way.  

“Neil, you don’t need to come,” one of them tells him through the earpiece.

“He merged into the crowd. I lost him,” somebody else reports. A slew of hissed curses follows. Robert then rattles off a list of traits that would help them recognize the rogue guest. With a pebble of dread settling at the bottom of his gut, Neil realizes that he might know this man as one of his clients.

Neil’s eyes roam around the club. Shit. The crowd is especially dense tonight, with it being a Friday evening and the night of his performance.

Shit. That whole metaphor with the limited edition shoes seems so stupid now.

A man matching Robert’s description slithers on the outskirts of the dancefloor; his purposeful gait makes him stick out as the others sway around him on barely steady feet. Neil’s eyes latch on to his figure under the pulsing strobe lights and heavy bass, struggling to track his every move.

Slitting through the throng of dancing people is made more arduous by the fact that the people are drunk. And his skirt keeps getting caught between a bunch of grinding bodies, which doesn’t help at all. The man ascends to the second floor where the VIP section is, and Neil keeps on pushing through.

After what feels like hours, he escapes the convulsing sea and reaches the stairs, his heels clacking as he bolts up the steps.  

A few of his regulars - the ones who usually request to have private moments with him - whirl around towards him with smarmy smiles and platitudes of praise for his performance. He fields their greetings distractedly, his eyes wildly scanning the area for the man.

“Where’s Neil?” Jean’s voice filters into his earbud. “Has anybody seen -”

Neil’s scalp burns as his head is wrenched back, fingers twisting in his hair. Gasps of astonishment and shouts of horror burst around him as he drives his elbow into his attacker’s sternum. He coils far away enough to slam the heel of his palm against the man’s nose, satisfaction coursing through him when he feels something crack underneath the blow.

The blood dripping out of the man’s nose doesn’t deter him from whipping out a knife from the inner pocket of his jacket. Neil circles him, taking in measured breaths.

The thing about him is that he is reckless by nature - his calculatedness is an acquired skill, a learned behavior necessary for survival. This means that when the man swings his knife, Neil doesn’t hesitate to shoot forward and grab the blade, wincing as it bites into his palm. He almost loses his balance, the man thrashing around to wrestle the knife out of his grip.

If he can land a back handspring in these three-inch demons, then he can damn well kick someone’s ass in them - which is what he does, thrusting his fuschia heel into the man’s crotch.

The knife clatters onto the floor, a safe distance away from where the man is curled up and groaning.

Catching his breath, Neil stumbles and thinks, oh.

His foot slips and then he’s tumbling backwards off the stairs. He squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth, holding his breath as he braces for the impact.

Except, it never comes.

An arm wraps around his shoulders and his face is pressed into someone’s chest. He feels the other person twisting them around so that they collapse on the landing instead of down the flight of stairs.

Air stutters back into his lungs, and he opens his eyes to the white skin of Andrew’s throat. He raises his head, and Andrew slowly blinks up at him.

“You caught me,” Neil says, too shocked to utter anything else.

“You fell,” Andrew says, expression a dead slate even though he was just knocked onto the ground with Neil’s weight on top of him.

Neil nods numbly. “I did.”

They sit up, their legs tangled together. Andrew’s entire frame tenses like an iron rod when he notices the blood trickling down Neil’s wrist. He’s on his feet with his knives drawn in the span of one second, but Neil snags the end of his sleeve just as quickly.

“Andrew,” he says. Andrew’s body is rigid with quiet rage, eyes riveted on the intruder, who is on his knees now, arms yanked behind him by Robert’s team. Neil didn’t even notice their arrival until then.

“Andrew,” he repeats, tugging on his sleeve. “It’s okay. They can handle it.”

Andrew’s shoulders relax, Neil’s words like a spigot that has all sense of aggression bleeding out of him. He places his knives back into the sheaths in his armbands, but he remains standing, shielding Neil behind him as the men take the intruder away. It isn’t until they’ve all disappeared onto the ground floor that he crouches down, eyes roaming all over Neil’s face and body. Neil understands it as him inspecting Neil for any other injuries, so he assures him with, “I’m fine. It’s just my hand.”

Andrew narrows his eyes, now searching Neil’s face for any signs of a lie.

“Neil!”

They both turn as Jean dashes up the stairs and falls to his knees in front of Neil, his frown etched so chronically into his features that Neil thinks it’ll never go away.

“You fool,” he hisses. “You ginormous idiot.”

“Jean -”

“You absolute ignoramus.”

Then he leans forward and pulls Neil into an embrace. Knotting his uninjured hand into Jean’s black shirt, Neil sags against him.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

“You should be,” Jean says, “you colossal jerk.”

“Are these going to be new nicknames for me?”

“Be quiet, _mon cher_.”

Probably for the first time in his life, Neil acquiesces to an order without putting up a fight, a smile tucked against Jean’s shoulder.

*

“Quite a scene you caused tonight.”

“Hey, I didn’t start it.”

“For once.”

Neil slouches into his chair with a sigh. “Fair enough.”

Across the desk, Izzy rearranges the pens in front of her and rolls one under her finger.

“How’s your hand?”

Neil flaps his bandaged hand around. “Jean patched it up good, like he always does.”

He doesn’t mention that Andrew had sat behind him on the couch in the break room, staring over his shoulder at Jean like a hawk. Jean, completely unfazed, had simply focused on tending to Neil’s wound.

Izzy settles back against her chair, her dark eyes assessing Neil. The thing about Isadora is that she doesn’t like to waste words; Neil is lucky that he’s perceptive enough to read her cryptic gazes and silent judgment. Andrew’s manner of speaking is a lot like hers, now that Neil thinks about it.

“And the client?”

Neil grins, all teeth. “No worries. We won’t be seeing him around anymore.”

“Who was he?”

“Does it matter?”

Tipping her head to the side, Izzy hums. “I suppose not.”

Some people want what they can’t afford. He wasn’t the first person to try to take more than he was given.

Izzy gets out of her chair, unlocking the wine cabinet she installed on the wall adjacent to the desk. She pours some for herself and none for Neil; she only drinks red wine, and Neil doesn’t drink at all. An unlikely pair to run a bar, but Neil’s always known that the universe has a very warped sense of humor.

She offers Neil a bottle of water, which he accepts. When she raises her wine glass towards him, he raises his uncapped bottle. They clink them together and take a long sip.  

“The detective was here tonight,” Izzy says. Concise, factual. Translation: Is it serious?

“He usually is, when I’m performing,” Neil says. Translation: I wasn’t aware there was an _it_.

“I thought you hated people who are in the business of law enforcement,” she adds, meaning _but you want him to stick around, anyway_.

“I do,” Neil confirms, no translation needed.

Izzy traces her index finger around the rim of her glass, eyes trained on the filing cabinet across the room.

“You don’t have to perform anymore, if you don’t want to.”

Neil taps a finger on the gauze wrapped around his knuckles. “I want to.”

The hint of a derisive smile has Izzy’s lips turning upward at the corners. “For the sake of your fans?”

“What will they ever do without me?” Neil wonders out loud, letting out a dramatic sigh.

It wheedles a broader smile out of Izzy. She tucks her hair behind an ear; Neil can see wisps of grey among the charcoal strands.

He suddenly feels compelled to add, “It’s not like I’ll be doing it forever.”

“Maybe only until you’re seventy.”

“I’ll go as hard then as I did at twenty-three.”

Izzy puts a palm to her cheek, sighing. “You should really do an Ed Sheeran cover next time.”

Neil squints, lips pursed. “There’s a ginger joke in there somewhere.”

Pressing her lips together to contain her smile, Izzy picks up her glass of wine. A pensive look pools into her eyes. She takes a slow sip, swirls the wine around, takes another.

“You should stop worrying about it,” she says over the rim.

Neil hitches an eyebrow. “About what?”

She puts the glass on the table, her movements neat. “About not doing enough for the club.”

“I don’t -” he frowns, stopping himself from getting defensive. “That’s not something I worry about.”

At his lie, Izzy stares at him calmly instead of advertising her skepticism.

Neil rakes a hand through his hair, takes a deep breath, releases it through his mouth.

“Fine. Maybe it’s something I worry about. But it’s not like it’s unfounded. If I want to stay here then I should -” he jerks his shoulders in a shrug “- do things to earn it.”

“That isn’t how it works,” she says. “Did you think that you would lose your place here if you don’t spend all your days and nights working?”

“I can’t afford to slack off. Too many people are at stake for me to make any stupid mistake.”

“Like tonight?”

Neil tears his gaze away, jaw creaking with how hard he’s clenching his teeth.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit. And us, too.” Izzy pauses, and Neil can hear her take a steadying breath. “You could’ve gotten seriously hurt tonight. You went off on your own and didn’t even tell any of us.”

Neil looks at her again. It takes him a few tries to find the right words to say. “All of you are important to me. This place is important to me. And sometimes I just - worry. That I’ll fuck something up and get somebody hurt.”

They’re both quiet for a while. Minutes roll by before Isadora quietly says, “Isn’t that why we all look after each other?”

Neil scrubs his eyes with the heel of his unbandaged palm, his shoulders shaking. It isn’t until he feels the ache in his cheeks that he realizes he’s laughing. Something pricks at the back of his throat, something like tears, maybe, but he hasn’t cried in years, so he thinks it’s something else.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely, “yeah, it is.”

****

The brush glides smoothly over his toenails, leaving behind a sheen of burning scarlett.

Andrew chose the color. Neil watches him from where he leans against a couch arm, legs draped over Andrew’s lap.

His back is hunched and his touch is careful, fingers cradling the sole of Neil’s foot as he paints Neil's toenails. He’s in a black tank top and sweatpants, his armbands left on top of the dresser. The scars on his arms look like silver pieces of thread, gossamer thin in the light that streams in from the windows. On good days, he lets Neil trace his fingers over them, again and again like he wants to memorize them by touch alone.

Andrew blows over the polish when he’s done, and a shudder races up Neil’s spine. Head bowed, Andrew presses a kiss to the bridge of Neil’s foot, his lips soft like flower petals.   

“I’m starting to think you have a fetish,” Neil teases, a smile curling around his mouth.

Andrew’s fingers make a trek down Neil’s leg, stopping at the hem of his shorts.

He’s donned one of Andrew’s sweaters to go with the shorts, but it’s not like Andrew hasn’t seen all of him. He’s never cared much for modesty anyway.

Neil nods an okay for him to continue touching him. He keeps his gaze on Andrew as he maneuvers himself until he’s between Neil’s thighs.  

“You like it,” Andrew accuses coolly. One of his hands is planted on the couch arm to keep his weight leveraged off Neil; the other is making a home under his sweater, thumb rubbing circles over an old knife scar on Neil’s hip.  

“You like it too,” Neil returns, “right here.”

He accentuates his point by stroking his fingers against the purplish pink mark on Andrew’s neck. The shiver it elicits from Andrew has his smile widening. Andrew’s ensuing glare only makes it wider.

His other hand slides up to Andrew’s hair; he likes the way it feels and the way it looks, like he has sunlight stuck between his fingers.

“What should we do for the rest of the day?” he asks, lightly dragging his nails over Andrew’s scalp in the way that he knows Andrew likes.

“You have work,” Andrew reminds him.

“We still have a few hours before then. Since it’s your day-off, we should do something nice and relaxing.” Neil reaches behind him, wiggling a little to extract the top hat that’s wedged between the cushions. Just one of the things he brought home to surprise Andrew last night.

Seeing that it’s a little squished, he shakes it out so that it goes back to its original shape. Then he sticks it on top of Andrew’s head.

“There,” he announces, tilting the brim over Andrew’s eyes. “Now you can fulfill your dream of becoming a showman, too.”

Andrew pushes it up a little, but he doesn’t toss it aside completely - perhaps the most shocking thing Neil’s witnessed in his life.

“Had enough of spending your time around a cop?”

“Maybe if you let me play with your handcuffs and gun,” Neil starts, face painted into affected innocence.

“Let us tackle one fetish and one kink at a time,” Andrew interrupts in a monotone.

Neil laughs, open-mouthed and senselessly happy. When he’s done, he finds Andrew staring like he always is, a glint in his quiet eyes.

Hooking his arms around Andrew’s neck to bring him closer, Neil continues carding his fingers through the golden strands of Andrew’s hair, the hat swept aside and toppling over the back of the couch.

“I don’t see why I can’t play with your gun, at least,” he murmurs. “We both know I’m a better shot than you are.”

Andrew’s face hovers near his, breath ghosting over Neil’s lips. “All the more reason for me to keep it far away from you.”

“Worried that I’ll fire at you?”

“Your disdain for the law is quite intractable, after all.”

Neil closes his eyes, and Andrew closes the distance.

It could have been seconds - minutes, hours, days - when they part, Neil feeling warm all over, a hearth in his chest. Kissing Andrew might be the most dangerous game he’s ever played; he’s not sure that he can ever quit it.

“Maybe I’ll make an exception for you,” he says, bumping his nose against Andrew’s.

“What an honor,” Andrew says flatly.

His thumb skates across Neil’s smiling lips, careful, just like all the other times he’s touched Neil.  

And then Neil remembers that kissing Andrew isn’t a game at all, because none of this has ever been a game to either of them.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ngl, I started writing this fic because I wanted to write that shoe gifting scene. I’m glad I did, because a lot of people were interested in seeing more of this AU, but I’m also kind of upset I did, because even after agonizing over this fic for a while, I can’t help but hate every single sentence in it. And I'm aware that some aspects are kind of unrealistic but. YOLO
> 
> Lmao anyway, please let me know what you think! :) 
> 
> My [tumblr ](http://nakasomethingkun.tumblr.com)


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